A Memory of Mountains

 

We used to be something.

I could’ve told you to the second from the shadow of a pine when the rain would come down
and in the winter, the light of the sun used to spill a red hail of ochre
she heard our conversations, and wanted to remind us that color hadn’t died with the shrub grass and cotton moths.

Wild flowers clung dried and buried in coyote fur. She sent those too.

We used to hear the whispers of Everest, a god in her own right, on tired winds
whose backs had been broken by the beat of a hummingbird wing
and the salt of several oceans.

I won’t lie to you, we weren’t that kind of something. But my god.
We were at least something.

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